I offered to show him the security camera above my garage.

Lorraine’s shoulders relaxed for the first time that morning.

That should have warned me.

The officer’s partner went to the garage while the first officer separated us.

Her name was Officer Delaney Ortiz, and she asked Lorraine why she had approached my property at all.

Lorraine answered that I had been harassing her about a neighborhood issue.

What issue, Ortiz asked.

Lorraine opened her mouth, looked toward the corner, and said that she could not remember.

My phone buzzed where it lay by the broken mug.

The screen lit up with a message from a number I didn’t recognize.

DO NOT LET THEM TAKE THE BLUE FOLDER.

The words vanished behind another notification before I could read the sender.

The officer bent down and handed me the phone.

As I took it, Lorraine whispered something so softly that only I could hear.

The folder is not for you, Nathan.

It was the first time she had addressed me by name that day.

I asked what she meant.

Lorraine turned away.

Within minutes, the garage footage established that I had not touched her.

It showed Lorraine walking directly across the street, striking me twice, and raising her whistle before any physical contact from me.

Officer Ortiz asked if I wanted to make a formal complaint.

I looked at Lorraine standing under the maple tree.

She was staring at the white van, which had reappeared on the next street and was now parked with its engine running.

I said yes.

Lorraine closed her eyes as if I had confirmed something she was hoping to hear.

Before Ortiz guided her toward the patrol car, Lorraine looked back at me.

Check the camera inside your garage, she said.

Not the one over the door.

Then she climbed into the back seat without resisting.

I had lived opposite Lorraine for nine years.

She had criticized my lawn, borrowed my ladder, brought soup when my father died, and once spent an afternoon helping my daughter learn to ride a bicycle.

She had never raised a hand to anyone in my presence.

Yet she had assaulted me in front of witnesses and seemed strangely relieved when I chose to report it.

I didn’t understand why until I opened my garage and found the interior camera lying on the workbench.

It had been unplugged.

Under it sat a blue accordion folder with my name written across the front.